


The Kindest Word for Folly

by Anendda_Rysden



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arguing, Celebrimbor is an ass, Despair, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Shadow of War is a buddy-cop movie and you know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 12:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16219247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anendda_Rysden/pseuds/Anendda_Rysden
Summary: Idril was stubborn and honorable to a fault, and if her ultimate choice was to remain in Mordor, who was Talion to deny her? Instead he offers aid where and when he can. Celebrimbor is not so generous, however, and the thoughtless cruelty of his words is more than Talion can bear. Things said in anger cannot be undone, and truth often cuts the deepest wounds...





	The Kindest Word for Folly

**Author's Note:**

> Bring to me all of my arrows.  
> Bring to me my longbow, too  
> I fear we might need them both,  
> Before the night is through.
> 
> Once a world of glittering hope,  
> This world is not the world we knew.  
> The only light left to shine,  
> Is between me and you.
> 
> On our own  
> In a world of stone  
> We are not alone
> 
> I had once believed in angels,  
> They were everywhere I looked.  
> A gentle hand guiding me,  
> To give more than I took.
> 
> But I have died a thousand times,  
> Watching all these angels fall.  
> Their lonely eyes haunt me still,  
> We will avenge them all.
> 
> And they will never break our spirit,  
> We will never turn and run.  
> And we will rise stronger still,  
> When we stand as one!
> 
> \- **World of Stone, Blackmore's Night** -

The Gondorians had set up camp in the northern vale where the throat between the mountains and the river narrowed to a point that was easily defensible, and thus slightly more safe. As he passed between the sheer cliffs, Talion’s otherworldly sight could perceive the archers emplaced high in the crags, pale blue against the darkened wash of the mountain. Both gripped dark longbows, arrows already nocked and held at the ready, and though he passed by unmolested, Talion could feel their watchful eyes on his back.

“When I was a lad,” Talion remarked, “the bows of Gondor were made of _lebethron_ – a black wood of the southern forests stronger and springier than yew. They were marvelous to behold and could shoot an arrow nearly 300 paces, if the stories were to be believed.”

“And the longbows of the High Elves could shoot twice that distance,” Celebrimbor snapped.

Talion held back a sigh. Clearly the Wraith’s foul temper had not dissipated in spite of the leagues they’d crossed that afternoon. He lapsed back into silence, his thoughts on Minas Tirith. It had been nearly thirty years since he had seen the fortress city. He wondered if the fair, white avenues still glowed in the setting sun, if children still laughed and played and darted between those going forth on business. Ecthelion the Second had been steward in those days, but the intervening years had been long and Talion imagined the duty had now fallen to his son. As far as he knew, the throne of Gondor still lay abandoned.

The steep crags fell away and the land opened into a little hollow. It was open to the north and to the leer of an Uruk stronghold, but Talion suspected it couldn’t be helped. In any case, the outpost was several leagues distant and separated from the vale by the vast, open expanse of a frozen lake. The Uruks would be hard-pressed to mobilize with any hope of stealth, thus giving the Gondorians plenty of time to either muster their defenses or rout from the vale before the fighting began. Talion would have greatly preferred they not stay in Mordor at all, but Idril would not be persuaded – neither by him nor Sergeant Baranor.

Celebrimbor labeled her a fool and Talion did not wholly disagree, though he respected Idril for her spirit. The shieldmaiden was stubborn and honorable to a fault, and if her ultimate choice was to remain in Mordor, who was he to deny her justice for the once fair city the Dark Lord’s armies had shattered? For the friends and family they’d murdered. The best Talion could do was provide aid where and when he could – though it was not nearly as much as he would have liked. He hiked his rucksack a little higher on his shoulder and walked into the Gondorian camp.

Except for the lack of grog and rotting carcasses, the collection of fire pits and sodden bivouacs were scarcely different from those of the Uruks. Thick mud sucked at Talion’s boots and the faint reek of blood, sweat, and burnt meat carried on the frozen air. Here and there, the men of Minas Ithil stood in ranks of two deep and four or five long, thrusting their swords into the belly of an invisible enemy. Battered shields glinted in the cold sunlight. The officer barked an order and they retreated a pace, chainmail corselets jingling.

Celebrimbor gave them a contemptuous snort.

Talion ignored him and looked around for a familiar face. A few of the men recognized him and nodded or waved in greeting, but most failed to notice his passing at all – or if they did, they swiftly averted their eyes. Some whispered to their comrades, though none were crass enough to point. Talion idly wondered what they made of him. Most days he was unsure of what he made of himself. Forty paces ahead, he caught a glimpse of burnished ebony skin.

“Baranor!”

The sergeant turned and squinted. After a moment, his face broke into an expression that, while not quite a smile, was certainly less dour. “Ranger! It’s good to see you again. I had thought you were away west, harassing Cirith Ungol until they knew not a moment’s peace!” He extended a hand and Talion grasped him firmly by the forearm.

“It is good to see you as well, Sergeant,” said Talion. “I was there until a fortnight ago, when I tracked a warchief down the Morgai Vale and so came here.”

“Did you get the brute?”

“After much toil and annoyance, yes. Afterwards I thought to pay your people a visit and see if there was anything I could do to offer my aid. I’ve also brought a few artifacts Idril might find of worth.” Talion lifted the rucksack to illustrate. “Where is she this afternoon?”

“Ah. Lady Idril is gone at the moment. We are critically low on medicines and she has taken a small company to find what she can. I have asked her not to go, to send men in her stead, but…” Baranor trailed off. He shook his head with a depreciating laugh, his expression jaded.

“Ever since she was a child, Idril has heeded none save her father – and then only rarely,” he added. “What chance have I?”

Talion chuckled. “I will find her,” he said, amused. “In what direction does she travel?”

“South, beyond the river. Most likely she will have gone into the mountains.”

“Talion, this is a waste of time!” Celebrimbor barked, exasperated. “We must return to Cirith Ungol before they choose a new warlord!”

“My thanks, Sergeant,” said Talion, nodding to Baranor. He took his leave and headed back the way he’d came. He had not passed Idril or her company as he’d entered the valley, and therefore he concluded that she must have veered her course west, into the foothills. Her instincts were spot on, at least. There was bound to be medicinal plants in that region, though one would undoubtedly have to range far and wide to gather enough to be of use. He wondered how long Idril had been gone. A day, perhaps two? He’d neglected to ask Baranor how long she’d been away from camp.

“Talion-”

“Be silent, Celebrimbor,” Talion told him sharply.

The Wraith’s jaw clenched, but he said no more. After a short walk they came to the river Baranor had spoken of, which the Uruks called it Piss Wash in their own tongue. If it had a fairer name, neither Talion nor Celebrimbor knew of it – even if the Uruks were not entirely off the mark. Flowing down from the iron peaks of Cirith Ungol, the river was stained with rust and its waters were undrinkable.

Talion leapt across the narrow channel and made his way to the foot of the mountains, where the icy rock gave way to scraggly pines and grey, frost-bitten shrubs with poisonous white berries that neither bird nor beast would touch, though some Uruks occasionally added a mash of them to their grog. A trade secret, as Talion had come to understand. He knelt to check the muddied snow. The tracks he’d found were too light to have been made by Uruks, who left the land bruised and gashed with the violence of their passing.

“Seven men, possibly eight,” said Talion, accustomed to speaking his thoughts to the Wraith, but Celebrimbor’s only response was his rancorous silence. Talion shrugged and rose to follow the trail. As he’d guessed, Idril had led her company into the foothills, where the forest was more sheltered and delicate plants more likely to grow. In any case Talion was able to follow swiftly, barely making any footprints of his own as he ghosted between the trees. All around, the thin forest was quiet. Birds rarely sang in Mordor, and when they did it was only raucous hacking of crows.

An hour or more had passed when Talion’s preternaturally keen hearing detected voices and the clink of armor. He listened for a moment before propelling himself up the granite cliff to his right. Idril and her company were being discreet. That was good. The Uruks had keen ears, too.

Talion crested the rocks and stood on their summit for a moment, peering down to where he could see the shapes of several men stooped low to the ground, carefully picking through the dead, crackling foliage. A tiny stream murmured coldly through the glen. Next to it, a flash of golden hair caught Talion’s eye.

“Here, my lady. We found two more by the rocks.”

“Thank you, Belegorn,” said Idril, very quietly, as though the woods might spring to life if she spoke too loudly. She took two pale, faded-looking athelas plants from the soldier who’d come up to stand at her elbow. It was a meager offering, but Idril smiled at him anyway. She tucked the herbs into her satchel.

“We should turn back,” the shieldmaiden announced. “We’ll find naught else in this place, and I shan’t like to be caught in the wilds after dark.”

“Wait a moment, lady. The glen is not entirely barren,” Talion called, nimbly leaping down from the rocks. The Gondorians whirled on him, hands going to their swords, but Idril soothed them back.

“Talion!” she called brightly. “I had thought not to see you until spring. From whence do you come? Do you hunt for game in these hills?”

“Aye, and fair game it is,” said Talion, his careworn face breaking into a smile. “Baranor told me of your undertaking, so I have come to offer my aid.”

“Baranor worries after me like a grandmother – but I will not say no to the company.”

“Then we are well met after these many months. Have you any luck in your task?”

“Some, though not as much as I should like,” said Idril, lowering her voice as not to be heard by the soldiers. “Winter is coming and what medicines we have found are diminished in their potency. Still, even shriveled they are a welcome thing.”

Talion gave her a confused look. “Do your healers not use alfirin?” he asked, pointing towards the stream to where a patch of the yellow flowers grew in abundance, bright and healthy despite the bitter cold. Idril followed his gaze with an equally confused expression.

“Anárion’s trumpets? They are beautiful, but hardly medicinal…” She gave Talion a curious look, her eyes brightening. “Unless you know of some secret I do not, Ranger,” she added.

“Many secrets, though very few of them are fair,” said Talion. He drew Acharn from its sheath. “Come.”

They knelt in the crackling needles. To all sides, the yellow-gold blossoms were scented sweetly, their perfume reminiscent of honeysuckle. “You want to harvest as low as possible,” Talion instructed, gently slicing through the stem. “And take care not to crush or bruise the flowers. Later I will show you how the Elves would make them into syrup. It is very good for wounds, and can also be eaten as honey to bring the flush of health back to one who’s been ill.”

Idril delicately placed the flower in her satchel. “I had no idea,” she said reverently.

“Because your kind is narrow-minded and short-lived,” Celebrimbor snapped. Talion glanced up to see him standing behind the shieldmaiden with his arms crossed, sneering down with cold, phosphorescent eyes. “It is not as if the Elves hoarded this knowledge. The Númenoreans would have known of it, as would the Elven kingdom of Lindon – whose people fought and died alongside yours on the slopes of Mt. Doom. A mere handful of generations and you already begin to forget the wisdom of ages past. Is it no wonder the strength of Gondor is failing.”

Talion flashed the Wraith a poisonous look, then quickly pulled his eyes back to Idril – but not swiftly enough to avert her curious stare. The shieldmaiden glanced over her shoulder, but of course saw nothing. “How does a Ranger of the Black Gate come to know of Elven things?” she asked softly, returning her gaze to him. “Did Elves visit the watch on occasion? Did they bring stories?”

The child-like eagerness in her voice was painful to hear. _She is scarcely older than my son was_ , thought Talion bleakly. _She should have grown up in peace and safety, tending to administrative matters alongside her father. What ill days have befallen Middle-Earth._

“No Elves ever came to the Black Gate,” Talion denied gently. “Not in life, at least.”

He resisted the urge to glance at Celebrimbor again, seething with a curious mix of emotions. Had the Wraith, then nameless and without memory, ever stood next to him on the watch? Had Celebrimbor watched the birth of his son, just as he’d watched him die?

Idril’s storm-blue eyes watched him keenly. Talion rose to his feet, his fingers lingering on Acharn as he slipped the broken blade back into its sheath. “Have your men gather the flowers, and I will escort you back down the valley,” he said.

Idril stood up, brushing dried needles from her leggings. “And I will be glad of it,” she told him. “We crossed the trail of an Uruk pack earlier this morning. The tracks were a day old, but they traveled with caragors and great trolls. It would be ill luck indeed to cross paths with them on our way down.”

They were on their way in less than a few minutes, and the pale afternoon soon gave way to a bruised twilight. Idril lifted the hood of her cloak. “And what of your days, Talion?” she asked, striding alongside him. “I do not pretend to know your mind, but I do know of your fight.”

“Some days it feels as though I am standing waist deep in the sea, trying to hold back the power of a storm,” Talion mused. It was strange thing, the sound of her voice. Strong and clear and feminine, so very different from Celebrimbor’s smoky rumble – verily the only voice he heard for months at a time, save for the crude parlance of the Uruks.

“Do you think your efforts are worth naught, then?” Idril asked softly.

Talion went to open his mouth, then closed it again in thought. He could not deny that on some nights, when the pale light of the sun had given way to greasy black, that he felt the utter futility of his task pressing down on the back of his neck, bleak and terrible in its weight. But ever did he struggle onward; though he was struck down again and again, his resolve had not yet broken, and with the New Ring, his army grew ever larger.

“On occasion it seems so,” Talion allowed, for such was the bleak truth of it, “but Mordor will not break me, nor will I allow it dominion over my heart. I will fight for as long as I am able.”

Idril looked at him for a long moment, weighing his words. After a lengthy pause she gave him the tiniest of nods, presumably in agreement, but it was only after she’d looked away did Talion notice the desolation in her eyes and wondered, had she truly been asking for him – or asking for herself?

They reached the camp just as night was beginning to fall. Several of the men greeted Idril with raised hands and booming voices, and Talion was inexplicably reminded of his days upon the Black Gate when the men under his command treated him in a similar way. “They respect her,” he observed when the shieldmaiden was distracted. “Her efforts have gained far more than just their obedience.”

“And yet their respect will not save them,” Celebrimbor answered. “One by one, they will die here.”

Talion clenched his teeth, choosing not to answer. Even so, however, the Wraith had turned his thoughts dark, and it was with a sense of dread that he watched Idril hasten over to Sergeant Baranor. A few words were exchanged, their tone lightly mocking, and the two embraced. Baranor shot Talion a grateful look over the woman’s head. Talion returned the gesture with a wan smile.

 _Damn him but he is right,_ the Ranger thought bleakly. _They will find little but death and suffering in these lands. I survive only by virtue of Celebrimbor and the dominion of the Ring we forged. Idril has neither. What will become of these men if she falls?_

“Talion! Come sit for supper,” Idril beckoned to him.

Talion winced, but he sat down next to the fire. The wood was hopelessly sodden, but the foul tang of grog was on the air and the flames popped and spat regardless. _Clever_ , thought Talion, cupping his hands around a bowl of thin broth. Its greasy surface was freckled with mysterious herbs and shreds of meat – from what denizen of Mordor, Talion decided not to speculate. He ate it without comment and decided that he had partaken of far worse meals in recent years. Through it all, he was acutely aware that Idril supped at no bowl of her own, but the rules of hospitality and the desire not to embarrass his host bade Talion to hold his tongue. He sat largely in silence as Idril and Baranor talked of Uruk deployments, and it was some time before the conversation turned back to him.

“It is thanks to Talion that our medicines may yet last the winter,” said Idril, her eyes sparkling. She lifted the satchel into her lap and spread the golden blooms upon it. “You said there were ways to prepare them?”

“So I did,” said Talion solemnly. “Bring something in which to boil water.”

The required items were soon fetched, and Talion spent the next quarter hour showing Idril how to slice the golden trumpets along their length, careful not to lose a single drop of the liquid that wept from the stems. With Acharn’s blade, he swept the pulpy mess into a kettle of boiling water. “The leaves have less virtue than the flowers, but all is valuable,” he said, stirring the concoction. “Watch closely as it boils and do not let it burn, nor let the water evaporate wholly. In time it will reduce and thicken into syrup.”

“Truly you are full of surprises, Ranger,” Baranor chuckled, and it seemed to Talion that some of the shadow had lifted from his eyes. “I have lived under the banner of Gondor for many long years, yet have only admired the flowers for their beauty. What other secrets do they teach the men of the watch, that they keep from us lowly soldiers?”

Talion glanced at him, but there was no malice in the man’s dark eyes, and the jibe was only in good humor. Talion smiled faintly. “The knowledge came not from Gondor,” he answered truthfully. “It was imparted to me from one who lived beyond our borders, in the kingdom of Eregion that was.”

“Hollin?” Idril exclaimed, with a noise Talion generously decided not to call a squeak. He gave the young woman an affectionate look, momentarily lost in the eager twinkle of her eyes. _She starves for knowledge of the past. And not just of Gondor. All realms of Middle-Earth hold equal fascination for her._

“That was another name for it, aye,” he said. Reminded of what had brought him to here to begin with, Talion left the kettle to simmer and reached for his rucksack. “Here, my lady. I bring you a few trinkets I have come across in my travels – rescued from the pilfering hands of Uruks.”

Her face glowing with pleasure, Idril dug inside, hardly noticing when Baranor excused himself from the fire. The first thing she lifted out was a golden armband, as might have been worn by a nobleman of ancient Númenor. An iron-shod boot had trampled and bent the thing nearly in half, but that did not stop the shieldmaiden from eagerly turning it this way and that, peering at the ornamental bas relief. “It is marked by the Star of Elendil!” she exclaimed. “Surely this was once worn by a great man!”

“Surely,” Talion agreed, amused.

Next to appear was a golden broach in the shape of a flower. Idril immediately commented on how she’d seen others like them pinned to the cloaks of noblewomen who’d come to Minas Ithil when she’d been a girl. “They must have been all the rage in the capital,” she said, “for it seemed as though all ladies wore them as finery. I used to lament the fact that didn’t have one and though my father laughed, he always said he’d send away for one.”

Idril swallowed. She turned the broach over and ran her fingertip over the broken pin. “Then the Uruks began to creep down from the passes of Cirith Ungol, and fewer and fewer ladies passed the bridge into our fair city. By the time I’d seen fourteen winters, they’d stopped altogether.”

Talion found he had no response to that, at least none that wouldn’t seem hollow. After a moment, Idril lovingly set the broach aside. “Ah, well,” she said with forced lightness. “You’ve brought me one now, so I will endeavor to polish and repair it. It shall complement my cloak nicely, don’t you think?”

Talion eyed the battered oilcloth Idril wore over her shoulders. “That it would, but I should think it would complement your hair even better,” he told her.

The shieldmaiden blushed, her pale cheeks going rosy in the firelight. She shifted with a well-oiled clatter of armor. _Would that she could have worn gowns and delicate gems, and kept her father busy chasing off all the eligible young men begging to court her_ , thought Talion, his heart heaving with an unexpected twang of misery. For a grievous moment, he wondered if Dirhael could have been one of those young men.

Idril put her hand back into the rucksack. After a moment of tugging, she pulled out a thick book bound in red leather – now burgundy with age and neglect. “ _An Account of Elendil the Tall and the Drowning of Númenor_ ,” she read off the cracked spine. “Where ever did you find this?”

“In the same troll horde as the armband,” Talion answered. “Undoubtedly they were stolen from the same coffers, if not from Minas Ithil, then from distant Osgiliath.”

“Never did I see this book in my father’s libraries – and I knew them all by sight, if not by name,” said Idril, opening the claps with the greatest of care. The spine gave an ominous crack and Idril winced, gently laying open upon her lap.

“It is still legible, even after all these years!” she exclaimed, adding, “There are elvish letters on the inside cover. It must be old indeed to be marked so. Oh, how I wish I knew what was said!”

“ _To Isildur, High-King of Gondor. May your father’s sacrifice remain unforgotten in the realms of Men, and may kinship between our peoples flourish in his memory,_ ” Talion read aloud, the depths of his eyes lit by an uncanny sapphire glow, for it was the eyes of the Ring-maker that knew the Tengwar script – not his. _“Yours in friendship, Elrond.”_

Idril stared at him in speechless amazement. After a minute, however, her gaze darkened and dropped. She traced the letters with the tip of a calloused finger. “The Uruks tell tales of the Gravewalker,” she said quietly, almost conversationally, her expression hidden by a curtain of hair. “It is well-known that the Uruks fear nothing in Mordor – and yet they fear _him_ , particularly the Elven witchcraft that leaps from his fingers. And the cold light of his eyes.”

Talion went very still. The fire spat wetly, groveling low in its circle of rocks. “I told you once that we should be glad of the friendship of such a man, and I meant it,” Idril continued, bravely lifting her head to meet his gaze. There was no fear in her eyes, only nervousness at broaching a line perhaps not meant to be crossed. “Are you half-Elven, Talion of the Black Gate?”

Relieved in spite of himself, Talion huffed a laugh. He stretched a leg closer to the fire and shifted his weight, allowing the knot of tension between his shoulders to uncoil. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “You guess closer to the truth than most.”

Idril continued to stare at him, desperately curious for an explanation, and Talion decided no harm would come of giving it to her. He unconsciously reached for his pouch, then let his hand drop. “Would that I had a bit of pipeweed to accompany the tale,” he lamented.

Idril perked up instantly. “You shall have it,” she exclaimed. “I carry a small amount in my bags. It is bitter and burns my throat fiercely, but I occasionally partake of it in memory of my father. He used to say that there was nothing like a bit of pipeweed to loosen the gears of one’s mind.”

A moment later, Talion had packed the bowl of pipe and set it to smolder with a twig from the fire, inhaling the fragrant smoke with a noise that was by no means decent. “It has been years since I have enjoyed the comfort of pipeweed,” he told Idril, smiling thought the bluish curls of smoke. “Thank you.”

“Had I known, I would have offered sooner. Please, keep the pouch. I have more and will not miss it.”

Idril tossed a fresh log on the fire and jabbed the embers until it caught, albeit reluctantly. Talion puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, deciding what to tell and what to keep to himself. It was not a pretty tale, and there were aspects of it he was not comfortable remembering himself, let alone revealing to another. On his finger, the New Ring gleamed with pale light, and he knew Idril’s eyes were upon it.

“Talion,” Celebrimbor growled warningly.

“Some years ago, a party of Uruks fell upon the Black Gate,” Talion began, ignoring the sound of the Wraith’s furiously gnashing teeth. “We fought bravely, but fell at the last – down to the last man.”

Idril looked at him closely, trying to piece together what he’d said and what he’d meant by saying it.

“Aye,” Talion confirmed softly, sparing the shieldmaiden from voicing her question aloud. “I exhaled my last breath alongside those I loved, and for a moment I glimpsed the Hither Shore – but someone else awaited me in the gap between worlds. An Elven lord of Eregion, who fell to Sauron’s malice nearly two Ages ago.”

Idril’s eyes shone with wonder. “And what was his name?”

“His name was Celebrimbor, greatest-”

“Greatest of the Elven smiths of the Second Age!” Idril blurted, all but leaping to her feet with excitement. “I know the name of Celebrimbor Silver-hand, who forged the Great Rings spoken of in the legends of Middle-Earth.”

Idril’s keen eyes knifed back to Talion’s hand and there she fell silent, understanding blooming in her gaze. Talion frowned inwardly, not at her perceptive nature, but at the small curl of triumph – dark and poisonously smug – that he felt coil through Celebrimbor’s breast. For a moment he wished he could take the Elf by the hair and shake him until a measure of humility tumbled out his ears. Calmly, as not to seem that though he did so out of undue haste, Talion put his hand out of sight behind his thigh.

“Did you learn of him in your books, my lady?” he asked, the corner of his lip twitching.

Idril nodded. “The fate of Gondor has always been entwined with that of the Dark Lord, whose return we have long guarded against,” she said. To her credit, her eyes did not lust after the glint of the New Ring, but returned easily to Talion’s face. “How could I not know of the tale of the Ring-maker, from whom Sauron learned his fell craft?”

Celebrimbor flinched.

“Celebrimbor was deceived by that which seemed fair,” Talion corrected sharply. Regardless of everything, he would not have Idril misunderstand that. “And for that mistake, he paid with his life and everything he held dear.”

A look of alarm crossed Idril’s face. “Oh, no- I- I did not mean to imply-” She twisted her hands, and Talion was suddenly aware of the dirt creased deep into her knuckles. “I cry your pardon, Ranger. I did not mean to assign blame. I have oft been told that my manner is too brash for a lady, and verily you can see why.”

“You meant no harm,” said Talion, “and so you are forgiven.”

“By _you_ perhaps,” Celebrimbor seethed.

Unable to hear the Wraith’s uncomplimentary spiel, Idril just nodded. There was a heavy pause. “And then?” she prompted after a moment, uncertain if Talion would be in a mood to continue. “What happened to you and he upon the Black Gate?”

“By virtue of his power I then returned to the world of the living,” Talion answered. It was a simplified version of the truth, but no less accurate for it. “Since then we have wandered the mountains and ash-plains of Mordor, bound not only by the unhappy circumstances of our deaths, but through our collective desire to see the Dark Lord brought low.”

Idril gave him a long look, coming to her own conclusions as to what that meant. Her gaze flicked back to Talion’s hand even though what she sought remained out of sight. “So that is your purpose, then?” she asked him slowly. “To needle Sauron's forces?”

“And thus keep his gaze fixed here in the Land of Shadow, rather than upon Middle-Earth.”

“Ah.” Idril made a small noise of understanding, then fell utterly silent. Talion knew it wouldn’t last. He pulled the pipe-smoke deep into his lungs and savored the pleasant burn as it slowly seeped back through his nose, watching as Idril’s gaze swept the dark fringes of the camp.

“Is he… here then?” She questioned in a low voice.

“Aye. Though you cannot see him, Celebrimbor remains at my side at all times,” Talion answered. _Often with his commentary in my ears whether is it asked for or not,_ he added silently, his mouth twisting into a rueful smile. Idril peered at the darkness a little harder, much to Talion’s amusement.

“A pity then that I cannot speak to him,” she said at last. “I have always wished to meet an Elf. How differently they must see the world, living as long as they do. And what _wonders_ he must have witnessed. The kingdom of Hollin was said to be fabulously wealthy and their craft unsurpassed – the work of Celebrimbor Silver-hand most of all.”

To Talion’s surprise, Idril’s gaze settled on the exact spot the Wraith was standing, sensing his presence even though she was blind and deaf to it. Talion lowered his pipe, pained by the regret in her smile. “He might be beyond your ken, but Celebrimbor sees and hears _you_ well enough,” he informed her. “Perhaps I may convince him to ply his skill into making something for you.”

“Absolutely not!” Celebrimbor exploded. “I have better things to do then whittle more useless trinkets for this girl’s collection!”

Talion’s jaw threatened to clench hard enough to cleave his tongue. He carefully kept his face neutral as Idril smiled, her cheeks blushing prettily again. “I- I can scarcely think anything more wondrous,” she murmured, adding quickly, “But I cannot ask you to spend the time, though the offer is greatly appreciated.”

Closing the book in her lap, she carefully packed it away with the broach and armband, then rose to stand next to the fire. _Such a little thing_ , Talion reflected dimly, for Idril’s height barely cleared the top of his head even though he remained sitting. The shieldmaiden put a hand to her sword.

“I must go on patrol for a little while,” she told him, still smiling. “Grandmother Baranor begs me not to, but I cannot leave my men to stand watch in the cold while I do naught but sit next to the fire. Please, feel free to spread your bedroll next to mine – and have little more stew, if you’re still hungry. Mayhaps I’ll return before you lie down to sleep and we can talk more of Elvish things.”

“I would like that,” said Talion sincerely. “Be careful. The dark of Mordor conceals many dangers.”

“And I am well-prepared to deal with them,” said Idril confidently, her carriage proud and straight as she moved away from the circle of firelight. Talion watched her go, not realizing his hand had tightened round the stem of his pipe until it threatened it snap.

“Well, Talion? Have you enjoyed wasting our time?” Celebrimbor asked snidely. He stepped around Talion’s side, gazing after Idril with cold and disgusted eyes. “Or perhaps you think a worthless book and a few bedtime stories will postpone that woman’s fate, or form a shield to keep the arrows of the Dark Lord from burying themselves in her breast.”

Celebrimbor threw him a nasty look over one shoulder. “Or maybe you hope to spread yourself next to her bedroll after all,” he leered. “I should think the memory of your wife would have lasted for longer than a mere handful of years.”

There was a muffled crack, and Talion looked down to see the two halves of his pipe joined by mere splinters. _Dirhael carved it for me_ , the Ranger’s thoughts tumbled. _A gift for Midwinter’s Eve. He was barely fourteen winters old._ For a moment he was too furious to even speak, his vision a haze of bloody mist and winking stars. He took a deep breath of the frosty, smoke-tinged air and forced his hand to unclench.

“Look at her, Celebrimbor,” he snarled, his voice vibrating on a perilously low octave, deeper than even that of the Ring-maker. “Look at her and _see_ her.” _You pompous, self-aggrandizing fool._

Talion’s burning eyes found Idril about fifty or sixty paces distant, his force of his attention turning her a brilliant gold amidst the blue sea of her peers. She was speaking to another group of soldiers huddled around a fire pit, where the smallest of the men looked barely old enough to be called a _man_. Beneath the battered Gondorian helm, his cheeks were hollow and pale, his eyes haunted by too many sleepless nights.

After a moment, Celebrimbor followed Talion’s gaze. He folded his arms across his chest, silently demanding an explanation for what, exactly, he was being commanded to see.

“Mordor is a miserable, ugly, _terrible_ place,” Talion bit out as Idril draped a battered oilcloth cloak over the boy’s shoulders, the same she’d been wearing not a moment ago. “She has lost her city, her people, her father-”

“A worthless traitor,” Celebrimbor spat.

Rage boiled in Talion’s chest. “Aye, that he was,” the Ranger agreed, “but that knowledge only compounds the pain of his passing, knowing her father was a broken man who would have traded all of Middle-Earth for the life of his daughter. Would you have done less, Celebrimbor? Had Sauron laid siege to Eregion, would you have sacrificed the palantir for _her_?”

A muscle twitched in Celebrimbor’s sunken cheek. Across camp, the soldier suddenly burst into laughter. It was a thin and fragile sound, a hungry bird huddled in a winter nest, but it was genuine nonetheless. Idril smiled and dropped a hand onto his shoulder, triumphant in whatever jest had been made. Talion tapped the ash from his broken pipe.

“Despite all of that, she soldiers on for the sake of her people,” he continued. His voice rose, and he was glad none were nearby to see him snarling to empty air.

“She goes hungry so that others may eat, and remains cold so that they might have a little warmth. She gives them _hope_. Hope she scrapes together from “worthless books” and artifacts of a brighter, merrier world. And you would deny her a mere moment of your time – for what, Ring-maker? For what reason do you deign to be so cruel? She thinks on your name with reverence, but I thank all the Valar that you shall never meet, for I could not bear to see you crush the spirit from her eyes.”

Celebrimbor stiffened, gloved fingers wringing into the sleeve of his tunic.

Talion ruthlessly pressed the advantage. “You have forgotten the love of your craft for its own sake. You care only for your own damnable pride!” he spat at the Wraith’s back. “There is no light left in you, Celebrimbor. You have been in Mordor so long that you have forgotten more than just your name. You’ve forgotten what it means to _give_ , the meaning of joy and hope and dreams–”

“ _Enough_ , Talion!”

Celebrimbor’s voice splintered. He whirled on Talion, one hand pushed out in a helplessness gesture of entreaty. The Ranger fell silent, not at all sorry the evil words had been said. He measured the look in Celebrimbor’s eyes, where the feral, phosphorescent gleam had had been replaced by shame.

“Please… no more. You have wounded me enough.”

“Have I?” It was a challenge, bitter and blatant. Talion could not remember a time he had been so angry, the poison of it throbbing and seeping through his breast like the purulence of an infected wound.

Celebrimbor’s throat worked to swallow. “Take me to the forge,” he said.

And in a flash of wintry light the Wraith was gone, but Talion did not move for a long moment, his fury slow to cool. Snow began to fall, the soft white flakes disappearing just before they touched the fire. Someone began to laugh, and another picked up a battered mandolin from where it had been wrapped in a dirty cloth. Calloused fingers began to pluck a tremulous tune from ages long past.

“ _Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!_

_West Wind blew there, the light upon the Silver Tree,_

_Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old...”_

Stowing his pipe, Talion rose to his feet and slipped away into the dark. He did not go very far, just to the edge of the valley, and it did not take him long to scale the cold, black watchtower – ascending beyond the ruins of reality and into the reflection of a forgotten age. His pouches he all but threw onto the gleaming floor, along with the handful of treasures they contained.

When he turned away, Celebrimbor was there waiting. His eyes were downcast, not meeting Talion’s heated gaze as the Ranger walked past to sit on the edge of the tower. Far below, Seregost spread out like a dark velvet shroud. Campfires flickered in the darkness like tiny embers; some Uruk, some Gondorian, all hunkered down for warmth as the storm slowly crept in.

Talion resolutely did not turn to look at Celebrimbor, not when he heard the trinkets shift and clink, and not when the first clear, resonate strike of the Ring-maker’s hammer rang out from the tower. Far did it echo off the frozen peaks of the Mithram Spur. The men of Gondor would have thought it the devilry of Uruks pounding away at some new device of war, but the sound was too sweet, too pure, and so it drifted to the backs of their minds and into their dreams.

Talion took a whetstone from his pocket and applied it to Acharn’s blade with hard, furious strokes. Before ten minutes had passed, he’d nicked his thumb and oiled the blade with his blood, but he kept at the task with single-minded intensity until the poison had been worked from his veins and Acharn had been sharpened so smoothly it suggested a certain degree of madness. As his blood cooled, however, sorrow inevitably began to creep in.

It was long past midnight when Celebrimbor’s next hammer-strike fell with a sour clunk. Unnerved in spite of himself, Talion glanced over, his eyes like glowing sapphires in the ghostly light of the tower. The hammer had struck the anvil, not whatever tiny thing lay in the center of it.

The Ring-maker had missed.

Celebrimbor’s shaking hand found the anvil and gripped it, his shoulders curling inward with exhaustion. Limp strands of hair tumbled over pauldrons that were nearly translucent, his luminescence flickering like a dying heartbeat. It was difficult for him to maintain physical form for longer than a few moments at a time – and he’d been doing so for hours. Talion watched the sadness and utter rage dance over Celebrimbor’s face, his eyes burning with self-loathing.

With great effort, Celebrimbor pushed himself straight again, raised the hammer above his head, and brought it down once more. There was no flash of light, no skin-tingling blast of Elven magic, and no Ring-script upon the anvil. Whatever craft lay upon its gleaming surface, it held no power save for that which was given to it by ordinary means. Celebrimbor’s knees shook, threatening to spill him to the ground. He bared his teeth and flung the hammer back again, fury etched into the sunken lines of his face-

Talion lightly caught him by the wrist.

For a minute they stood without moving, the Ring-maker’s shoulders heaving for breath he didn’t need. “Celebrimbor-” Talion began softly, but the Wraith pulled his hand free with a jerk.

“Do not apologize to me, Talion,” he spat. He placed both hands on the anvil and sagged over them, framing a mess of tangled wire and chips of moonstone. For a moment, all was silent.

“You spoke the truth of me,” the Elf Lord said at last, his voice thin with fatigue. He laid the hammer aside and looked at it with a shudder. “I wish I had died in her stead,” he added bitterly, more to himself than Talion. “The Gondorian was able to give his daughter that much, at least.”

Talion suddenly recognized the wire upon the anvil, once a familiar Elven pendant – but no longer. He hastily put his hands out to catch Celebrimbor as he collapsed, kneeling with him on the luminous floor. To the Ranger’s horror, something cold and molten gleamed in the corner of Celebrimbor’s eye, then spilled into the withered crags of his cheek. Looking at him then, Talion suddenly regretted the barbed words he’d twisted into the Ring-maker’s soul. Much of the blow had been deserved, but not all.

“Aye,” Talion murmured. “Would that my life could have been exchanged for that of my son. And yet we linger on, in darkness and in doubt. I cannot even remember my wife’s face, only the sound of her voice singing to me from beyond the hither shore.”

His voice cracked, and Talion looked away into the blowing snow. Far in the distance, the burning crown of Mt. Doom could be seen on the horizon like a baleful, winking eye, and in that moment Talion could see the long years stretching out before him, an endless cycle of blood, death and despair. Celebrimbor had spent an age in Mordor, his soul cursed to wander the land of Shadow. In time he’d forgotten everything – even his own name. Talion wondered if he were destined to share the same fate, to fight and die and rise again and again and again until the memory of that which he fought _for_ had faded like so much ash.

“Why do we persist, Talion?” Celebrimbor asked him miserably, almost as if he’d sensed the Ranger’s thoughts. “Vengeance will not ease the pain in our hearts, nor soothe the ache in our soul. In all likelihood we only delay the inevitable. Middle-Earth is doomed.”

“Perhaps, but if we do not fight, then we give up on the memory of all that is good in this world,” said Talion, the words soaked with his heart’s blood. “We cast aside the first time our children called us ‘father’ and the nights we laid with the woman we loved, and forget the sound of music and the taste of good food. We fight because we must _hope_ , Celebrimbor.”

The Ring-maker scoffed. “Hope is by far the kindest word for folly, don’t you think?”

“And yet it is hope that truly keeps the darkness at bay, or am I mistaken?”

An icy wind raked the tower, yet somehow did not penetrate it. The scudding clouds tore open, revealing a sliver of clear sky and the cold, distant glitter of a star. Celebrimbor’s eyes fixed on it as a drowning man would cling to rope. He let out weak chuckle. “How could you be mistaken, Talion, when even the star of Eärendil comes to bear witness to your words?” he mumbled. His gloved hand found Talion’s forearm and clutched it hard. “You are a far wiser man than I.”

 

Talion pulled the Ring-maker up to stand and held him until he was steady on his feet. Celebrimbor threw a glance at the anvil. “I haven’t the strength to finish alone,” he said.

“But you’re not alone, Wraith. Not this time.”

Celebrimbor gave him a long look and Talion was momentarily taken aback by the warmth in his eyes. The Ring-maker stepped towards him, stepped _into_ him, and together they picked up the hammer. Talion eyed the clutter upon the anvil, but was unable to see what was taking shape. “Have you an idea?” he asked.

“I do,” Celebrimbor rumbled.

As one, they lifted the hammer and struck.

 

* * *

 

It was some time past dawn before Idril thought to look for the Ranger, whom the men reported to have slipped away sometime in the night. The shieldmaiden pursed her chapped lips. “I should have liked to say farewell to him before he left,” she complained to no one in particular.

“There’s still time, my lady, should you still wish to do so,” said Talion, wending his way through the jumble of camp. Idril turned to him and smiled, her breath steaming in the frozen morning.

“Talion! Are you truly leaving then? Will you not stay for breakfast? There is but a little, and I’m afraid it is seasoned with rat more than anything, but it is warm and fills the belly nonetheless.”

Talion looked at her with fondness. “Not today,” he rebuffed her gently. “I must be on my way, though not for any lack of hospitality or good company on your part.”

“Where will you go?”

“West, back to Cirith Ungol. There are matters I must attend to, but there is something I wished to give you before I depart.” Talion passed her a discolored scrap of cloth, carefully making sure she realized the object wrapped within. Against his massive hands, hers seemed terribly fragile, her fingernails dirty and blunted with toil.

“Last night you spoke to me of Elvish things, of treasures belonging a forgotten Age, but I offer you something of today instead. Celebrimbor wishes you to have this.”

Idril twitched with surprise. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching in vain for what she could not see. “Then the sounds of a smithy last night…? I thought I had dreamed them.”

“It was no dream, and by his hand this now comes to you.”

Idril swallowed the lump in her throat. After a moment, she looked down and carefully unfolded the cloth. The morning sunlight flashed on twisted mithril wire shaped and wrought in the likeness of the White Tree. Wrapped in its embrace was a large cabochon of moonstone, clear and milky one moment, aglow with iridescent blue flame the next – in the memory of Galathilion and Nimroth the Fair, from whom the White Tree descended, and in tribute to Minas Ithil, fallen Tower of the Moon.

“This- this is...”

Talion watched as Idril’s pale face twisted, her chest hitching beneath mud-spattered mail. It was the face one who hadn’t the luxury of crying in a long, long time. Talion gently took her face between his hands and bent to place a kiss on her brow. “ _Á harya indo maralessë:_ _huorë, márië, estel,_ ”he said softly, in a voice that had too much resonance to be entirely his own.

Idril trembled, and Talion felt the hot splash of tears against his thumb.

“What… what say you to me?” she whispered.

“That there is still light in this world, even in the blackest depths of Mordor,” he replied. “Hold to that light, little though there may be, and it will keep the shadows from your heart – even when all hope seems lost. May the White Tree ever be with you Idril, Daughter of Castamir.”

Idril threw her arms around the thick trunk of his chest. “And with you,” she choked, clinging to both him and the pendant as though they were last things left in all of Middle-Earth. “I beg of you, please- please tell Celebrimbor that I will cherish his gift until the ending of my days.”

They parted company just as the sun crested the iron hills of the valley. Newly fallen snow winked and blazed like crushed diamonds as Talion walked, ice crunching softly beneath the battered heels of his boots. All around, the withered shrubs had been coated with frost, giving them a fleeting moment of beauty.

“Talion.”

Celebrimbor washed into existence already matched to his pace, their shoulders almost brushing.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Nothing more needed said, and the pair walked on in companionable silence.

**Author's Note:**

>  **TO VIEW A LARGER, HD VERSION OF THE PICTURE PLEASE VISIT MY DEVIANTART PAGE!  
> **  
>  https://www.deviantart.com/anendda-rysden/art/The-Kindest-Word-for-Folly-767231399
> 
> At first I was pretty sure I'd never forgive Celebrimbor for his assholery, but several months later on a replay on the first game, I couldn't help the gnawing feeling of regret. The burden of foresight is a heavy one, LOL, knowing there's no way to avoid the part when the grumpy backseat-driving Wraith is no longer there to narrate the names of the Uruks. The sound of silence is deafening. 
> 
> So while the ironic and darkly twisted ending was perfect in many ways, I can't help but prefer the cozy little shard of my own creation where such evil things never came to pass and these two continued to fight side-by-side until they crossed over to the Hither Shore together, goddammit! 
> 
> Fight me if you dare, Tolkien fanboys. ;) I loved these games and will defend them unto the ending of the world.


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